The Initiate in the Dark Cycle: A Sequel to the Initiate and to the Initiate in the New World - Softcover

Scott, Cyril

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0877283621 ISBN 13: 9780877283621

Publisher: Red Wheel/Weiser, 1991

Synopsis

The third volume in the series takes up where The Initiate and The Initiate in the New World leave off, providing more insights into the mysterious Adept known as Justin Moreward Haig. At first, we think that "the dark cycle" relates to the group of students left to their own devices when Justin Moreward Haid disappears for a time. The students meet with the astrologer David Anrias, and become aware of the concepts taught by Krishnamurti and the theosophists. But when Justin Moreward Haid reappears we learn that the dark cycle really indicates a period of destruction and war when Planetary Logos is throwing off and transmuting poisons that create disturbances in the collective astral or emotional body of the human race. In this volume we learn how the group develops, how they relate to their missing teacher, and how they continue their search for spiritual understanding.

About this title

About the Author

Cyril Scott (1879-1970) was an English composer, writer, and poet. The youngest student of his time accepted to The Hoch Conservatorium in Frankfurt, Germany, Scott was hailed at the beginning of the 20th century as the father of modern British music. He wrote several other books, including An Outline of Modern Occultism, The Great Awareness, and The Initiate trilogy.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Initiate in the Dark Cycle

By Cyril Scott

Samuel Weiser, Inc.

Copyright © 1991 The estate of Cyril Scott
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-87728-362-1

Contents

CHAPTER
Introduction
I. The Deva Initiate
II. Suspense
III. The Blow Falls
IV. "The Sound of a Voice that is Still"
V. Krishnamurti: A Problem
VI. "A Pioneer of the New Morality"
VII. David Anrias: Astrologer and Occultist
VIII. The Telegram
IX. A Master's Home
X. The Master Discourses
XI. The Truth About Krishnamurti
XII. J. M. H. On Many Subjects
XIII. The Future of the British Race
XIV. A Soul in Darkness
XV. Master Koot Hoomi's Messenger
XVI. Two Himalayan Masters

CHAPTER 1

THE DEVA INITIATE

Shortly after the publication of The Initiate in the New World, I found myselfconstrained to send an S.O.S. in the shape of a letter to my Guru, JustinMoreward Haig. It was not an easy letter to write, because, needless to say, Iknew he was not omniscient; he could not raise the dead, nor, from his house inBoston thousands of miles away, make the unseen perceptible to one who had lostthe power to see. For my wife, owing, we imagine, to a series of operations, hadbeen deprived of the clairvoyance which had made psychic communication with theMaster possible. This deprivation had caused her much unhappiness, which was notalleviated till we came into contact with Chris, who, by means of her owntranscendental gifts, was able to illuminate the path Viola could no longer seefor herself.

And now Chris was dead, and Viola plunged into even greater darkness thanbefore, since to her sense of loss was added the sorrow of being debarred fromusing that very faculty which alone could have bridged the gulf between herselfand her beloved friend.

Chris had been no ordinary friend; she had possessed unique qualities which sether apart from the ruck of average human beings. More of the other world than ofthis, yet ever ready with her amazing insight and sympathy to lessen itssufferings, she had become the pivot round which our lives for several years hadrevolved. Her death left Viola, who had an exceptionally strong link with her,and who has followed the path of love rather than that of wisdom, inwardlyheartbroken. Emotional by temperament more than philosophical, she heroicallytried to suppress her grief as inconsistent with occult ideals, but only endedin making matters worse.

And so in the hope of obtaining some advice wherewith to assuage her suffering,I resolved to send that S.O.S. to my Guru. Little did I think that theconsequences ensuing from so simple a resolve would provide sufficient materialfor a large portion of this third book.

* * *

As I sit writing these first few pages, my memory goes back to that apparentlyinsignificant, middle-aged little woman who, before she passed over, played soimportant a part in our occult lives, and transmitted to those few capable ofreceiving it such a wealth of knowledge from the Masters of Wisdom. I can stillpicture her with her silvery white hair and contrastingly young face, notbeautiful as regards feature, but rendered beautiful none the less by anexpression of spiritual dulcitude. I picture her in her rather dilapidatedguest-house into which drifted human wreckage of all descriptions, derelictsbroken and battered in body and mind—derelicts certain not only of welcome, butin most cases of healing for their particular ill. They clamoured for her at allhours of the day; never had she a moment to herself. I see her always in ahurry, attempting the proverbial impossibility of being everywhere at once,often exhausted and almost ceaselessly tormented by neuralgia, yet always sweet-temperedand equable, now soothing away somebody else's headache with herstrangely magnetic touch, now consoling some girl in the throes of an unhappylove-affair; at one moment solving an abstruse metaphysical problem for apainstaking student of philosophy, the next attempting to adjust the differencesbetween some ill-assorted married couple. Even now I still continue to marvel atthe almost instantaneous adaptations she was able to make to their varied andconflicting claims.

A strange rambling house it was, with its heterogeneous assortment of patients.Christabel Portman and her husband seemed incapable of closing their hospitabledoors to people of whatsoever social type or standing: the measure of their needwas their sole passport for admittance; soap-manufacturers from the North,aristocrats both English and foreign, tired little school-teachers, Indian civilservants, French, Dutch, Syrians—all these and many more at one time or anotherhad assembled and sojourned at "The Pines," that retreat which the Portmans, inconjunction with a doctor, had run for the treatment of baffling psychologicalcomplaints. Chris, with her wonderful powers, not only diagnosed the complaint,but was psychically impressed with the most suitable means to cure it. But theill she was best at curing, as Viola always declared, was that called "heartache."...

A number of the people were theosophists, recommended there by fellowtheosophists; others had come at the suggestion of some unconventionalphysician, only to find themselves puzzled and sometimes not a little shocked atbeing thrown amongst such a peculiarly minded crowd.

Well do I recall the incongruous snatches of conversation I so often heard atthe crowded dinner-table, as the voice of one person or another predominatedover the general clamour, or a sudden piano momentarily brought a fewconsecutive sentences into high relief.

"I suppose you know, Mr. Smith, that all your trouble is Karmic ..." from anearnest and humourless spinster.

"Never 'aving coom across that word in Ma-anchester"— stolidly sarcastic fromMr. Smith — "Ah couldn't say as it wasn't. But Dr. 'Odges says it's constipa-ation."

"No, no, you don't understand—does he, Mrs. Portman?"

"Mais pardon, Madame ..." and the Frenchman's voice pierced the conversationalorchestra, nasally, like a muted trumpet, "ze Absolu' can in no circomstonceevair come into manifestation—voyons, ça n'est pas logique ça!"

"But I've always understood from the books——"

"You can please yourselves, of course," though this Yorkshire woman did not lookas if she meant it, "but give me the good old story of Jesus Christ and theChristian religion."

"None of us are denying the Christian religion, Mrs. Satterthwaite."

"Wonderful man, Sir Thomas—now he really manifests brotherhood."

"How that woman does love a title ..." a whispered remark from my neighbour.

"Is the permanent atom always in the throat-centre, Mrs. Portman?"

"Chris dear, I had such a curious dream—could it have been a memory of a pastincarnation?"

"So queer—my toes always tingle when I meditate; do you think it means—"

"This year, next year, sometime, never——" But this was only someone earnestlycounting her plum-stones.

And there at the head of the table sat Chris, always the final court of appeal,at one moment trying not to be convulsed with laughter, at another attempting topour oil on troubled waters and produce a semblance of harmony amidst the clashof so many diverse personalities.

* * *

And now my memory harks back to another and very different scene: Chris in herlarge and romantic garden with its lawns and winding paths, its lily-pond, itspergolas and rose-hung arbours; Chris, discoursing on high metaphysics to asmall circle of men, while they listened impressed and enthralled. Because shenever laid herself out to impress her listeners, she never gave them the irksomefeeling that she was "holding forth." Moreover, if she set her mind to it and"tuned herself in," she could give most correct and erudite discourses onsubjects about which she had previously known nothing. I remember an occasion onwhich somebody challenged her to deliver a little lecture on Japanese art; shenot only complied, but came off with flying colours.

Although all were agreed that "Mrs. Portman was a wonderful woman," even thetheosophists, with very few exceptions, did not suspect how close was her linkwith those Masters of Wisdom they had been taught to revere. And had they beentold, some of them would not have believed. Like Madame Blavatsky of mixed fame,Chris, from her earliest childhood, had clairvoyantly seen that impressive andlove-radiating Being she later on came to know as one of the Himalayan Masters—herown special Guru. I remember her telling me one day as we sat alone togetherin a secluded part of the garden, how, when her body was asleep, she used totransport herself to His house in Shigatse, and with child-like rapture listento Him improvising on the organ He had had built up there. For Master Koot Hoomitakes an especial interest in music, and endeavours to inspire all those who, invarying degrees, are receptive to His influence.

Chris had a genius for improvisation herself. She could hear the super-earthlymusic of the devas, and, allowing for the limitations of the piano, translateit into earthly sound. It seemed strange, in a sense, that one so gifted shouldhave been doomed to spend her life in this atmosphere of sickness and mentalaberration from which I always felt that her sensitive nature inwardly shrank.

"Oh, if only I could have been a musician!" she would sometimes ratherwistfully exclaim; then, with her funny little smile: "Ah, well, it justwasn't meant to be ..." and as if to banish the thought, she would run off to cheerup one or other of the many patients; when, a little later, she flitted past meagain on some further errand of mercy, she flung over her shoulder: "Don't goimagining I don't love my work for my lame dogs!"

"The more lame they are, the more you seem to love them," I retorted. Her laugh,receding in the distance, answered me ...

* * *

One day I told Chris about my Guru, J. M. H., though I did not mention his name.

"How frightfully interesting!" she exclaimed, all enthusiasm; and then thatfaraway look came into her eyes which meant that she was "sensing up" things.

In a moment or two she smiled to herself—a whimsical, enigmatic smile.

"Now look here, Chris," I said, "you're not going to keep all that to yourself.Strikes me, you probably know more about my Master than I do. Come along, outwith it!"

She laughed heartily. "How you do amuse me!"

"Thank goodness for that; but I'm waiting to hear what you know about myMaster."

"Oh, not much; only that his particular work seems to be in connection withpreparing bodies for the new sub-race."

"There you are!" I exclaimed, "I never knew that."

"Oh, didn't you?" She was, or pretended to be, surprised.

"Well, how should I? He never told me. I wonder why?"

"The ways of Masters are mysterious," she said. "Perhaps he thought it of noimportance."

"Or perhaps he didn't want me to know, and you've gone and let the cat out ofthe bag," I teased her.

"He doesn't mind whether you know or not; if he did, I shouldn't have toldyou."

"All right, then, please tell me some more!"

"All these physiological Yoga practices he teaches——"

"Well, what about them?"

"They're for the purpose of making the body extra strong and controlled, as wellas extra sensitive. That's what the new Race has got to be."

"You mean that when his pupils have children, they'll inherit all that?"

"Well, of course."

"And why specially in America?"

"Because there are going to be a great many sixth sub-race bodies over there.But not only there. Your Guru, for the time being, has undertaken to do thatwork for the Americans in this particular cycle."

"This is getting interesting. Let's hear some more." But she was called away todeal with somebody in an epileptic seizure. Always an interruption of one sortor another.

* * *

I remember there were some curious people who used occasionally to turn up at"The Pines," ostensibly because they were feeling a bit "off colour," but inreality because they wanted confirmation of their own psychic impressions, ormerely wished to talk about them to Chris. One well-meaning but deluded soul wasconvinced that she was in frequent communication with the Virgin Mary. On oneoccasion she even asked Chris to go down on her knees, as the Madonna wasalleged to be present.... But unfortunately all Chris could see was a mischievousspook, thoroughly enjoying the sport of masquerading as that exalted Being; andthus found herself faced with the ticklish task of conveying to the good ladythat her visions arose mostly from her own subconscious mind, or at any ratethat what she saw was not quite what she imagined, and that the Virgin Mary wasin no sense involved ...

I remember another woman, stout and full-blooded, who insisted that she got"Teachings" from Beings of quite unimaginable altitude. These Beings, however,proved to be strangely accommodating. The doctor had forbidden her, for herhealth's sake, to indulge a taste for port wine, but after abstaining for a fewdays, she impressively informed us all —and the doctor—that her "Teachers" hadoverruled his injunctions! Again Chris had to step in ...

She did not of course deny that the clairvoyance of such women as these wasoccasionally genuine. It was just the trouble, as she pointed out, that, likeall untrained clairvoyants, they could not sift the tares from the wheat, norprevent their "sensings" and "seeings" from being coloured by their own personaldesires. To make people of this type more self-critical without discouragingthem too much, was a far from easy, though quite a large part of her work.

* * *

I could go on multiplying these memories of Christabel Portman, but to do sowould be to fill the pages of a whole book. Yet even this sketchy portrayal ofher, such as it is, has been no mere literary self-indulgence: it has been aprelude to that most vivid of all memories—that Sunday morning when she came tome and said: "The Master has offered to speak to you."

* * *

In a chair alone by the fire in the little oak-panelled room set aside formeditation, sat Chris; but the ineffable smile with which she greeted me wasnot hers, and although the voice was hers, the inflections and choice of wordswere different.

Her lips spoke the words gently and lovingly: "Greetings, my son ..." and her handheld mine for a moment before motioning me to be seated—with a gesture that wasalso not hers.

And then I realized that she had done what only initiates of an advanced degreecan do—she had consciously stepped aside, and temporarily yielded up her body toher Master.

Would that I were permitted to write of all that He said on that and otheroccasions when He did me the honour of speaking to me, but He has enjoinedsilence. For much that He imparted was of a private nature, and much that Hetaught me may not yet be revealed in a book. Yet of His love, His tolerance, Hismodesty, His wealth of language, His power to elucidate difficult problems orexpound occult truths in a few simple words and a poetic simile—of these I feelimpelled to speak. Despite His imposing intellect and the spirituality whichradiated from Him, He seemed so endearingly human. There was none of thatpatronizing element of looking down from superior heights upon the childishfrailties of us poor unevolved mortals. Many a time I was constrained to lamentover my failures, but instead of reproaching me, He reassured and comforted meby conceding that the tasks which had been set were too difficult to beaccomplished in a moment of time. As long as He saw that His pupils were reallytrying their best to succeed, He never reproached them; only when they wereindifferent or thoughtless did He manifest signs of displeasure.

I used to come away from those interviews refreshed and exalted in body andspirit, and with such a keenness of memory that even now I can recollect almostevery word He spoke.

* * *

And then Chris died, and these soul-inspiring interviews came to an end.

Perpetually surrounded by patients who made ceaseless demands upon her; alwaysgiving out and getting scarcely anything back; expending more and more of herdiminishing strength on her husband who, for years, had worked under thedisabilities of an incurable malady, she herself contracted a painful and fataldisease. People had come to depend on her too much, and for the sake of theirspiritual development, as well as for reasons connected with her own evolution,it was deemed best that she should be withdrawn.

Because of love, she had all her life sacrificed herself to the needs of others,as thousands of years before she had sacrificed herself to come from the freeand joyous planes of the deva-kingdom to the troubled and restricted planes ofearth. Although to our limited vision she was a human being, to those who couldsee, she was still a deva in spirit, and beloved of the devas as much as sheloved them. And because of that love, the healing devas guided her hands whenshe touched the sick; the sound devas inspired her when she touched the piano;even the little nature-spirits, busy among the flowers, mingled their joyousnesswith that joyousness of hers, which ever radiated on all around.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Initiate in the Dark Cycle by Cyril Scott. Copyright © 1991 The estate of Cyril Scott. Excerpted by permission of Samuel Weiser, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Red Wheel/Weiser
• Publication date: 1991
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0877283621
• ISBN 13: 9780877283621
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 240